


A.J.

by Trobairitz



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:37:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobairitz/pseuds/Trobairitz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I stared down at him in a sort of awe. On the surface of my mind, I was still debating. There was still a voice insisting I had to report this. But in my gut it was already decided. It had been decided from the moment he thought to beg me. There was no way I could say no to Raffles."</p><p>Different era, same overt homoeroticism. It's Modern!Raffles, you guys! There's stealing! And pining! And disguises! And Bunny sulking over tea! And Raffles being a dick! And twu wuv? Maybe!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Disguises

**Author's Note:**

> This series is going to be a very sporadically updated work as the muse hits me, but it is likely to end up very long. It will eventually probably involve explicit sex, but that is many, many chapters away. For now, it's pretty much gen. I mean it hardly qualifies for pre-slash at this point. It's super tame. Anyway, it's unbeta-ed and I am American, so sorry for any issues associated with those two facts, and if anyone from the UK wants to volunteer to beta... yes please?

As the scenery outside the bus window grew steadily more obscured by condensation, I checked my notes for the fifth time. His name was Ralph Jones. He was one of the “fallen-through-the-cracks” sort, like most of the people I usually dealt with. Not homeless, apparently, but near to it. A series of odd jobs, none lasting more than a month, from being a Big Issue vendor to working as a barista at a Costa. A minor criminal record of small-time shoplifting, including this latest incident, the reason I was going to meet him today. He had stolen several small, worthless items from an Off-Licence. Somewhere independently owned or else a chain I didn't recognize. His solicitor had quite convincingly argued kleptomania, and the court had agreed to let him avoid jail time or a fine he couldn't pay if he would voluntarily consent to intense, one-on-one counselling and rehabilitation for his disorder. And that was where I came in.

I thumbed back and forth through the pages, in case my other several inspections had somehow bypassed the obvious, but the usual grainy, photocopied photo of my patient was, indeed missing. Just my luck. I probably wouldn't be able to figure out who he was. I was about to leaf hopelessly through the folder yet again when I happened to glance up at the display at the front of the bus. This was my stop.

A brief and chilly walk through the mist shrouded morning later and I was inside the lobby of the courthouse and trying to surreptitiously guess the identity of my patient as I loosened my scarf. There was a secretary working at her computer behind her desk, and several people sitting scattered around in the various stages of frustration one tends to see in these places of bureaucratic torture. None of them looked particularly like a “Mr. Ralph Jones”. Three of them were women, though, so that helped a bit. 

I scanned the room again, hoping my discomfort was not too evident. There was a large man near the left wall, wearing a moth-eaten jumper, but there was a woman next to him avoiding his gaze with such intensity that they must have been there together. Another man, a little further away, more of a teenage boy really. Probably too young. But there were still a number of possibilities.

“Mr. Manders?” said a voice to my right. I glanced over in surprise.

Beside me stood a man of approximately my height, with a mop of unruly red hair and a pair of thick spectacles. I couldn't tell his build, buried as he was in an overlarge and somewhat tatty pea-coat. He extended a hand in greeting. “Are you my... what was it they called it... my assigned counsellor?” His voice was soft and vaguely Welsh, and his cheeks had the barest hint of dark stubble.

I shook the proffered hand and turned on what I hoped was a congenial yet authoritative smile. “You must be Ralph Jones.”

He nodded, smiling nervously. His nerves were heartening. Perhaps I hadn't looked like too much of a lost fool. I started on my practised spiel. 

“Well, Mr. Jones, I am indeed your assigned counsellor and rehabilitation officer. You can call me Mr. Manders. I'll be meeting with you daily for the next few weeks, and, if all goes well, after that it will only be once weekly check-ins. Would you like to meet here, or is there perhaps somewhere else more convenient for you?”

A sort of odd look flickered over his face before he replied.

“I think, perhaps, we should meet at my home. If that is at all convenient for you.”

“Well, I always try to be accommodating! Where is it?”

“We can go by tube, this time,” he replied, ignoring my question and moving to the door.

“Erm, yes, well, good plan, let's.” Suddenly feeling rather out of sorts—well, more out of sorts—I held the door for him to follow me out.

What a curious man. It was as if something visceral in me responded to him for leadership. Perhaps it was the note of something familiar about him, as if he reminded me of someone, although I couldn't place exactly whom.

The tube ride was a longish one, and I tried to make some preliminary chatter with him as we rode.

“So, Mr. Jones,” I began, my tone light and friendly, “Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?” He seemed to hesitate, so I continued, “No need to spill your soul just yet. I'm not going to psycho-analyze you. Nothing confidential or anything. I just want to know a little bit about who you are—the stuff they give me would make a CV seem like an autobiography.”

It was a joke I had used many times before and I feared it came out quite rehearsed, but it earned a quiet chuckle from him.

“Well, I guess you know the Ralph Jones part. Er, right now I'm not working. Was sleeping rough until a while ago, but I've got a place now...”

He went on for some time, haltingly and not saying anything too revealing, but talking, nonetheless. As I prompted him with questions and listened attentively I thought I detected a hint of amusement in his blue eyes, almost as if he were having me on. But an instant later it was gone. I felt a strange sense of unease deepen in me s he continued talking.

In time, the recording came over the speakers in the tube announcing that the next station was Piccadilly Circus, and Mr. Jones nodded his head graciously to me, his ginger curls bobbing slightly with his motion.

“We get off here.”

It was at that point that I realized part of what had been bothering me this whole time. The thing (well, one of many) that had seemed so off. I leaned in a bit, narrowing my eyes.

“Are you wearing... a wig?”

“Really,” Mr. Jones replied with a wink, “I would have thought you might have noticed sooner. Then again, you're the first to notice at all, so I suppose I must commend you.”

I couldn't help myself. There was something in the warm, amused tone of his voice that made me say, “Thank you,” without even thinking. I spluttered for a moment at my own automatic reaction before I continued in what I hoped was an authoritative tone, “ _Why_ are you wearing a wig, Mr. Jones?”

“If you're going to ask silly questions,” he replied, standing and stepping off of the carriage without looking back to see that I was following, “You are liable to get a silly answer.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked as I hurried to catch up to him, trying with less and less success to regain my position of authority or at the very least to not be scurrying along behind him like a lovestruck schoolgirl.

I got stuck briefly behind a group of slow-moving tourists but I caught up to him at the oyster readers. I repeated my question, and he turned to me with a smirk.

“To keep my head warm. Now if you want a proper answer, you will have to either be patient or figure it out yourself.”

It seemed as if the man before me had utterly changed within the last few minutes. It was as if he had grown three inches and his physical presence had undergone some reverse polarity process, switching abruptly from meek and unassuming to ~~devastatingly handsome~~ arrogant and self-assured. I will admit, I felt perhaps a little afraid at that moment.

But I had braved some of the worst neighbourhoods in London and I had managed to help people who I had at first secretly feared. Certainly this was no worse than many other cases. An idea hit me. Perhaps he suffered from some form of dissociative personality disorder. It would explain his behaviour now, and maybe even provide a partial explanation for his repeated petty thefts.

I followed him still, now going through a list of symptoms in my head and trying to define him, wishing that I had more in-depth training than my one-year certification. The counselling job was really more of a last resort after I had had no success with getting any of my writing published, although it did appeal to my desire to learn people's stories. I was interrupted from my musings by Mr. Jones himself turning back to face me.

“Now,” he said, “Don't react with too much shock. There is a perfectly good explanation and you will have it once we are safely ensconced somewhere private, and at that point you are welcome to muster as much shock as you wish. But for the time being, try to remain quite calm and act as if nothing is surprising to you whatsoever.”

I tried to do as he requested, really I did, but a short stroll later and we had arrived at the gates of that most prestigious of all addresses: Albany. And Jones strode directly up to the porter, meek again, and mumbled something I couldn't quite make out, and then the porter let us in. I think I may well have goggled. I had forgotten to wonder at where someone of Ralph Jones' finances could live so near to Piccadilly Circus, and now I had a great many other, more incredulous, questions to sort through.

We entered one of the apartments, the entrance hall of which could easily have accommodated most of my own flat, and Jones closed and locked the door before turning to me.

“Now then, Bunny,” he began, removing his wig and glasses in one smooth motion, and it is a good thing there was a chair at hand because I may well have fainted dead away had it not been convenient for a spot of impromptu collapsing.

For at the sight of the face, changed but recognizable, and at hearing my old nickname, I suddenly knew exactly who was standing before me. It was my old schoolmate and the now terribly successful cricketer, A.J. Raffles.

 


	2. Explanations

His face lit up with a triumphant and ever so slightly mocking grin, the same grin I had seen him wear on any number of occasions after completing some brilliant trick when we were at school together. But just as quickly as it had appeared, the grin faded into an expression of concern. 

He leaned in to me and touched my shoulder. 

“Are you alright, Bunny?” It seemed he was about to say something else, to apologize, perhaps, for leading me on this merry chase, but he stopped himself and merely peered quizzically into my face.

I am fairly certain that the appropriate name for my expression was “flabbergasted”. It took me some moments to collect myself enough to blurt out “Raffles?!”

Reassured, perhaps, that I was not on the verge of heart attack, A.J. straightened and rocked back on his heels, and the grin resurfaced.

“None other. Really, my dear boy, there's no need to gape.”

Was I gaping? I suppose I was. But then, I had good reason. I stood to meet him at eye level. Or very nearly eye level, at least. Raffles had always been tall, and even now that we were both adults, he still had a few inches on me. 

“What on earth is the meaning of this? This apartment, this... disguise, none of it adds up! Who... why--” I struggled to ask all of the questions buzzing through my mind at once.

“Bunny, please,” he replied, chuckling, “one question at a time. Come along into the sitting room proper.” He removed his tatty coat as he spoke, hanging it carefully on a bare hall tree, and led me to another chair. “Would you care for a drink?”

“I'm on the clock,” I replied, sitting.

“I'll put the kettle on, then.”

He left me waiting there, stewing in my thoughts, while he trotted off to some other room in the flat. I nearly followed him, but was just glad enough of the opportunity to try to sort through all of this in my head that I chose instead to sulk quietly and wait for him. It had been years since I last saw A.J. The last time had been at a school reunion nearly four years ago, and even then it had been more of a passing “Oh, hello, how've you been, oh, wait, I already know, you're quite famous” than a real meeting. He had been surrounded by people, which really was not all that different from when we had been at school. He had always been my closest friend, but I don't believe I had been his.

But now, to meet him again, and under such strange circumstances. Why the disguise? And the theft? Why would A.J. Raffles assume a false identity and shoplift from an Off-Licence? A disturbing thought occurred to me. What if Ralph Jones was not an assumed name? What if my actual patient was still sitting in the courthouse, waiting for me? Raffles had approached me first, after all. What if he had just gone along with it when I called him by the wrong name? It was exactly the sort of thing he would do for a laugh, now that I thought about it, wasn't it?

I was jolted from my thoughts by A.J.'s re-arrival and the warm mug of milky tea that was pressed into my hand. I sipped it. Two sugars and a healthy splash of milk. Precisely how I took it.

He sat down on the near end of the couch. He had changed, into dark, belted jeans that somehow gave the impression of having been pressed, and a well tailored button-up shirt. Both garments looked very expensive. All traces of Ralph Jones were gone from his appearance. 

“A.J.,” I began before he could further delay a discussion of the topic at hand, “Are you really Ralph Jones?” That was an abysmal start. I tried again, clutching my tea. “I mean, of course you aren't, but is that an assumed identity or something? Or is the real Ralph still waiting for me?”

“I am more Ralph Jones than anyone is, Bunny. Relax. Yes, he's a sort of a character of mine.”

“But... why?”

“Why, what, my dear boy? Be precise.”

“Why... this whole thing. You dressing up... not just dressing up! You have records—I have them—somewhere--creating this whole persona. And committing crimes as him! Several counts of shoplifting. And at the trial, the kleptomania, are you, I mean, do you... and why didn't you tell me? Surely you recognized me!” 

As I hit upon the point which, although not the most mysterious, bothered me the most, my voice grew nearly to a shout and I fear I became slightly hysterical. One can hardly blame me, I think, in spite of the fortifying cup of tea. “Were you just trying to make a fool of me?! WHAT, Raffles?!”

“Bunny, please, I was not trying to make a fool of you. Calm yourself, man.” He raised his well-formed eyebrows in an expression of chastisement, but I would have none of it.

“Keeping me in the dark like that—even now you haven't told me a bit about this mad situation you've dropped me into—why did you not tell me who you were as soon as you recognized me?”

“Well, first of all, judging by your reaction now it would most likely have been rather disastrous to reveal myself at the courthouse. Secondly--”

“But after we were outside, or perhaps on the tube--”

_“Secondly_ , I practically did.”

“What do you mean, A.J.? You allowed me to believe you were this... this fictitious persona--”

“Really, Bunny, I gave you every opportunity! My wig had to nearly slip off of my head before you noticed it to be false, and not once did you comment on my accent although I switched briefly to Highlands Scottish on not one but three separate occasions! I gradually pulled out of my assumed posture until I was physically every bit a gentleman, and still you seemed unaware that anything was amiss! There were conflicting details in my story--”

“I did notice those,” I cried, springing to my own defence, “Only it was not the first time I have had a patient stretch the truth, you know!”

“Very well,” he conceded, “That I suppose makes sense. Still, though, Bunny, I did everything short of sing the old school fight song to let you know I was not who I claimed to be.”

“You ought to have told me anyway,” I muttered, growing embarrassed in spite of myself. I took a long drought of my tea.

“Alright, Bunny,” he said, and it wasn't quite an apology, but it had the same intonations as one, so I accepted it.

“Anyway,” I said, “What of all the rest of it?”

“You must understand, Bunny, what you are asking me to do. I have never told anyone about all of this.” 

“I am your assigned counsellor, you know. Who else are you going to make privy to all your secrets? Besides, in bringing me back to your flat and showing me who you are, I would think you've already given away a dangerous amount of information. And, lastly, you did promise me an explanation, if you'll recall.” 

I congratulated myself mentally on my sound reasoning as he began to speak. I later learned how many lies and half-truths were woven into the explanation he gave me, but at the time it was plenty shocking enough that I easily believed it was all quite true.

“Part of what you know about Ralph is true. Everything that is on that criminal record, did, in fact, happen. The employment history has been exaggerated a bit, but I have held some of those jobs in this disguise. The excuse from the court, the reason you're here, the 'kleptomania'... that's real. And that's why Ralph exists. I live in the public eye, Bunny. I may not play on the most prominent team, but I am a professional cricketer, and I can't afford to have anyone in the press learn of my... inclinations. I can't indulge myself as myself. But as Ralph, I can. I always had a flair for the dramatic, you know that. It wasn't so difficult for me to create this character, to seem to be someone I'm not. And the more technical aspects... making an identity for him so that it could get blemished instead of mine, well, I've grown rather competent with technology, to say the least. I've done this before, a few times, although I got in rather deeper than I would like this time. Still, I could have managed and carried on the charade. Only... I never anticipated having you assigned as my counsellor.”

I merely stared at him for a long moment.

“The theft is one thing, that's been dealt with, but... My god, Raffles, identity fraud? Have you any idea of the repercussions for a crime of this magnitude?”

“I'm quite familiar, yes.” He frowned at me. “It's just the only way I've found to cope with this, this illness of mine.”

I shook my head slowly. What was I to do? I had to report him. But it was A.J., the boy I had idolized in school. A.J., whom I had always looked up to, and who was now kneeling on the floor in front of me, looking up at me. When had he gotten there?

“Bunny,” he said, his voice hoarse, “I am, quite literally, begging you on my knees. Do not go to the authorities. Help me. That is what you came here to do, when you thought I was someone else. Help me to fight it, to fight the urges. With you to aid me, I'm sure I can dispense with this false identity. If you will help me, I won't need him. I won't need to steal. If you can help me to overcome this.”

I stared down at him in a sort of awe. On the surface of my mind, I was still debating. There was still a voice insisting I had to report this. But in my gut it was already decided. It had been decided from the moment he decided to beg me. There was no way I could say no to Raffles.

I set a gentle hand on his shoulder, giving it a sort of pat. “All right, then, A.J. I'll keep your secret. And I'll help you.”

Looking back upon these events, I think that this was the point where I began my descent, that one small step towards the underworld of vice and depravity. Perhaps I am being melodramatic in my descriptions, but it nonetheless holds true that I could very easily have reported him for the numerous legal infractions associated with this false identity, and I did not. I did not at that time, and I certainly have not at any time since then. I am far too deeply embroiled in this thing now. But I am getting ahead of myself.


End file.
